


For the Season

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basch’s room is wonderfully warm and smells distantly of smoke and spices, as if the time of year has crept inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Season

Yule in Archades is a rich and decadent affair. The streets are hung with pine and holly branches, the windows of the houses lit with candles, as if the owners wish to welcome all comers.

From what he knows of Archadian gentry, Basch finds that very unlikely.

As bodyguard to the Emperor, as Gabranth, Basch follows Larsa to feasts and galas, stands by his shoulder as the lords of his court present him with gifts and trinkets and promises of fealty. It makes Basch nearly dizzy with anger, watching them bow and smile, all the while knowing these are the arrogant fools who had attempted to wrest control of the empire out of Larsa’s hands until he comes of age.

The evening before Yuletide, Basch is dismissed from his duties early. Larsa has bid his staff go home.

“Spend time with your families. There will be time enough for work in the new year.”

Basch waits as the room empties. He has no family, and pretending to be someone else makes it difficult to make friends. And at any rate, Basch has never had much of a social circle.

“It’s begun to snow,” Larsa declares, turning toward the frosted window. In profile Basch can see hints of his brother in him—the line of his throat, the high arch of his nose, the fall of hair in his eyes, but when he turns back his smile holds none of Vayne’s cruelty. “A front’s blown in on the north wind.”

“My lord?”

Larsa is smiling like he knows something Basch does not. “The north wind brings unexpected things with it. Have a good evening, Basch. A happy Yule to you.”

Basch bows his head. “And to you, my lord.”

 

Basch’s room is wonderfully warm and smells distantly of smoke and spices, as if the time of year has crept inside.

The luxury of his apartments had unnerved him at first, having spent most of his life as a soldier, and two years of it as a prisoner. He had tried explaining to Larsa that he didn’t need a bed so large, or a rug so thick his feet sunk into it, but the young emperor had just laughed, telling him he’d earned it.

The armor of a Judge is bulky and complicated, but by now Basch has donned and removed it so many times he has it off in a matter of minutes, pulling off the leathers worn underneath. He’s down to his breeches before he says, “Are you planning on standing there all night, pirate?”

There’s a smooth chuckle, the heavy brocaded curtains rustling as Balthier steps from behind them.

“I was waiting for the best part,” he says, leaning carelessly against the bedpost. He’s dressed in soft leather breeches, and a shirt of wine-red silk, most likely in honor of the season. Basch has never seen him in this color before—it turns his skin gold and darkens his eyes, makes him even more striking than usual. “What gave me away?”

“Your breathing,” Basch says, unable to prevent a smile. “And the fire is banked—.”

“No servants?”

“None who come in here.”

“Out of fear?” Balthier asks, amused.

“Out of my request that they do not.”

“A soldier still, I see.”

“Then there is the wine,“ Basch nods toward the slim green bottle uncorked on the table.

Balthier shrugs. “Yes, well. I knew you wouldn’t have any. You have absolutely no sense of the season.”

“You could have put it in the cupboard.”

“It needed to breathe.” Balthier walks over to the desk and picks up the bottle, giving it a sniff. “Rare Rozarrian vintage. You’ll never guess what I had to do to get it.”

“Never guess?” Basch repeats as Balthier raises the bottle to his lips. “Or wouldn’t want to guess?”

Balthier puts the bottle down, padding across the carpet and hooking a finger in Basch’s belt.

“No matter,” he murmurs, and his voice is almost a purr. “Tis a dull tale, anyway.” There’s a lazy glimmer to his eyes, a languid ease to his movements that tells Basch he is already a little drunk.

“Where is Fran?” he asks, unable to resist running a hand up the pirate’s back, feeling the shift of compact muscles, the rasp of scars against fabric.

“We’re docked in the aerodrome until the storm blows over. I believe she’s gone to find her pleasure somewhere in the city.” Balthier’s lips quirk upward. “And I thought I’d come to find mine.”

He kisses him, quickly, a fleeting brush of tongue. Just enough to taste the wine.

“And you had such confidence I would be waiting for you?”

“You are startlingly easy to predict, sir knight.” Balthier’s hands go to his belt, unbuckling it, pulling it out with a snap.

“Indeed.” A few moments later Basch is naked, Balthier still fully arrayed. “And what do you predict I’m going to do next?”

Balthier’s grin is a bit like a wolf’s when it goes in for the kill. “Sit down, old man,” he murmurs against Basch’s neck, “And I’ll show you.”

Pushing Basch down onto the bed, he sinks fluidly to his knees, running his hands down his thighs, making Basch shiver. He’s reminded of the first time this had happened, in an inn up the mountain pass, the others just a room away. He’d been forced to bite his knuckles to keep from making noise, and there had been bruises on his fingers in the morning.

Balthier leans in, pink tongue flicking out to lap across the head of his cock, making a noise of approval as Basch shudders and moans. There aren’t many things in the discovered world that can take Basch so easily apart, but this pirate with his smart mouth and clever hands is one of them.

He grunts, hand going to the back of Balthier’s neck, scrabbling for purchase in his short-cropped hair as he thrusts into the silken warmth of his mouth. Balthier groans in encouragement as he pushes him down, not fast enough to make him choke, but enough so that Basch can hear him straining to swallow around him.

Basch comes astonishingly quickly, unable to prevent himself from pushing sharply up into Balthier’s mouth. The pirate pulls back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, lips flushed and slightly swollen.

“Been a long time, then?” he asks, and Basch doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so smug.

“A long time,” Basch agrees. Years ago he might have been embarrassed at his lack of restraint, but he has learned to take pleasures where they come. He sinks back onto the bed, more relaxed than he can remember feeling in a long while. “The work of a Judge does not leave one with an excess of opportunities.”

Balthier is unbuttoning his shirt, fingers quick and practiced. “That isn’t quite how I remember it.”

“You were young, and no doubt much better formed than a broken warrior.”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.” Balthier’s hands smooth up his chest for a moment, perhaps to let Basch knows just how he feels about broken warriors, before going back to his shirt. “Though I do concede that I was young—not yet seventeen.”

“Not yet seventeen?” Basch repeats. How is that possible?”

Balthier divests himself of his breeches, much faster than seems entirely likely. “Haven’t I ever told you, sir knight?” He climbs onto the bed, sleek and sinuous. “ _I_ was a prodigy. I entered into the Akademy at twelve.”

“Prodigy?” Basch pulls Balthier down on top of him, thighs splaying warm over his hips. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Bite your tongue,” Balthier growls, before leaning in and doing it for him, a sharp nip that makes Basch gasp. Moving down, the pirate licks a long line up his throat. “Fran and I aren’t set to depart until past dark tomorrow evening.”

Basch smooths a hand up his back. “The emperor has given me tomorrow to myself.”

“Well, then.” Balthier slides back down to the foot of the bed. “No need to rush things.”


End file.
